


Legends Are Made

by MYuzuki



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Extensive World-building, Gen, Harad, Haradwaith, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, The Haradrim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:42:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29029629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MYuzuki/pseuds/MYuzuki
Summary: It all starts when she sees the carrion birds circling.
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, one and all, to a fic that involves a lot of world-building and is very OC-heavy (especially in the beginning). Basically, this story is what happened when I thought a little too much about how we never really get to see or hear much about the Haradrim people or Haradwaith in general. As always, all the potential and possibilities were like catnip for my brain and here we are!
> 
> In the ending notes of the chapters, you'll occasionally see what basically amounts to glossary entries for certain aspects of the world-building I'm doing for the Haradwaith that's portrayed in this fic. A lot of this information will be mentioned/elaborated upon in the narrative itself, so these glossary entries aren't *really* necessary but I do find them fun and I hope you do as well.

**Chapter 1**

* * *

It all starts when she sees the carrion birds circling.

It's not an unusual sight, in and of itself. The land they live in is a perilous one, after all, with plenty of danger to match its wild and terrible beauty. Death in not an uncommon thing in Haradwaith, no matter which of the three kingdoms one calls home. Especially now when war and illness and famine seem to lurk around every corner and the Shadow stretches farther every day, trying to bend her people to its will.

But there's a slight niggling sensation at the back of Nasrin's mind, a faint itch of curiosity that she can't quite shake as she watches those vultures whirl in the air, eerie black specters against the bright blue sky.

"You have that look about you again," her second-in-command Aijaz remarks as he comes up beside her, his tone somewhere between amused and resigned. "Something on your mind?"

She turns to favor him with a tired smile, gaze absently drifting past him to where their hunting party is efficiently field dressing the _karkadann_ they'd slain only moments before, gutting the beast and methodically stripping the carcass of everything of use or value. "Plenty of things," she says honestly, because as one of the leaders of the Bāli Bāgha tribe she'd be hard-pressed to think of a moment when she's _not_ thinking of a dozen things at once. That being said, occasionally something will pique her interest with a little more intensity than usual, such as now. "What do you make of those carrion fowl?" she asks Aijaz, nodding her head to the birds in question.

Aijaz's eyebrows climb towards his hairline but their friendship is such that he doesn't bother giving voice to any questions (yet, at least). Instead, he mirrors her stance and turns to peer at the horizon, where the vultures are continuing to swoop through the air, their eerie screeching calls faint upon the midday breeze. "I find it interesting that they are not hovering above _us_ ," he remarks after a moment, a faint frown drawing his mouth down at the corners. "Given that we have a fresh kill and the carcass would make for easy pickings once we finish taking what we need from it." A pause, then, "You want to go investigate," he says, and it's very much not a question.

"I do," she admits, because even if it's likely to be some poor wounded creature about to shuffle off the mortal coil, there's still that chance that it _isn't_. There's a small whisper of _what if_ at the back of her mind; what if it's an injured Haradrim, lingering on the edge of death and hoping desperately that someone will come along. _Her_ tribe has none of its members actively missing that she knows of, but even if it's a member of another tribe she's bound by her own morality to render aid if possible. Because these are dark and dangerous times, and if there's anything she can do lessen the stranglehold of darkness upon her land even a little bit she has to at least _try_.

And so they set off, after giving the rest of their hunting party strict instructions to keep an eye out for danger until they return.

It becomes apparent the closer they get to the epicenter of the vultures' interest that this in indeed not a case of an injured beast. As Nasrin crests a grassy knoll, she nearly trips over a body clad in misshapen black armor with a bright red eye painted on the breastplate, and has to stifle her instinctive flinch at the sight.

It's not the only such corpse lying mangled upon the ground, either.

"Sauronite cultists," Aijaz says, tone disgusted as he steps forward to kick the closest body. "Leave them to rot."

Nasrin supports her friend's sentiment wholeheartedly, because Sauronite cults are a blight upon the world, spreading death and poisoning the hearts of Haradrim with their twisted worship of the Dark Lord of Mordor.

(She still remembers her first glimpse of a cultist as a child, when she'd accompanied her mother on a trip to a market town in the Butkada province. Remembers a figure cloaked in tattered black robes, espousing Sauron's great and terrible power. Remembers the cultist spewing vile promises of a false peace to all those who swore allegiance to the Dark Lord of Mordor, guaranteeing survival if only they fell in line and did his bidding.

Remembers her mother hurling her spear into the throat of that cultist with all the furious wrath of a woman whose husband had been killed for daring to defy the Shadow that crept over their country, for using his position as Tiger's Claw of the Bāli Bāgha to strike against the enemy. For leading a war party to raid an Orc stronghold on the northern border of Haradwaith, where the Huren River runs along the foothills of the Mountains of Shadow.

Nasrin is Tiger's Claw of her tribe now, and while her first priority must always be the survival of her tribe she knows more than well enough that hunting for food and fighting off marauding bandits is not enough to safeguard the future of her people in the long-term. To protect not just her tribe but _all_ tribes -all Haradrim, regardless of whether they live in the deserts, or the grasslands, or the wild jungles of the south- something must be done to root out the dark corruption that has so insidiously crept through her country since the ancient times.

And so Nasrin has stabbed more than a few cultists as well over the years, has not hesitated to do so since she was old enough to wield first a dagger, then a sword, and then later the dual-ended glaive she now favors.

She likes to think that her parents would be proud, if they were still alive to see her actions.)

She's about to turn away and start trekking back to where her hunting party awaits, because if the corpses of the Sauronite cultists are shredded to bits of bloody gristle by carrion fowl she's not going to shed a single tear, when she catches a glimpse of woodland colors, the pale beige bright against the russet-colored earth in a sharp contrast to the black armor of the cultists. "That is no cultist," she says, and wanders closer for a better look.

"An Elf," Aijaz says, striding closer to the slender body sprawled in the dirt. "Sindarin, by the look of it," he adds, and Nasrin has to agree.

This Elf has skin so pale that it's blistered from the heat of the sun, red welts scattered across his cheeks and forehead, and the long hair fanned out on the ground around the body is a pale yellow that reminds her of fresh barhi dates in the _khalal_ stage. And whoever this Elf is, he definitely doesn't have the look of the Avari who are native to Haradwaith; rather, his clothing has a certain elegance to it despite the bloodstains and ragged tears and smears of dirt, and his long smooth hair is without the thin braids and beads that the Avari weave through their hair for decoration.

"I wonder what he was doing all the way out here," she wonders, because Haradwaith is no place for a Sindarin Elf; they live farther north, and -from what Nasrin has heard from traveling merchants who have journeyed beyond the borders of Haradwaith- they typically keep to themselves for the most part.

"Dying, apparently," Aijaz says, tone brusque but sympathetic as he casts another look at their surroundings, particularly at the crumpled corpses of the Sauronites strewn upon the ground. "Looks like he took some of these thrice-cursed cultists out with him, at least, so it was not a wasted death."

Nasrin gives a low hum of agreement, then feels her heart skip a beat as the Elf they'd assumed to be dead on account of the grievous wounds scattered across his torso stirs faintly, giving a ragged wheeze as one hand twitches towards the broken bow lying snapped at his side.

"He's still alive," she breathes, torn between admiration and horror, because as injured as that Elf is he must be in extreme agony, assuming he's conscious enough to even feel his myriad of wounds. "Aijaz, quick, help me!" She falls to her knees beside the prone Elf, hands reaching out to check his wounds for signs of clotting or infection. She has to leap back just a second later, however, recoiling with a curse as the Elf lashes out, crying out deliriously as he thrusts a dagger at her in a wild flailing motion.

The tip of the dagger swings wide, coming absolutely nowhere near her, and Aijaz is there in an instant, wrenching the weapon from the Elf's grasp even as the injured member of the Eldar race thrashes in the dirt, furious words tumbling from cracked lips in a language neither she nor Aijaz can understand.

"We're not trying to hurt you," Aijaz hisses to the Elf as he pins his arms, and Nasrin grimaces as the bloodstains on the Elf's clothing spread further, his already-fearsome wounds exacerbated further by his furious writhing. "Stop struggling!"

The Sindarin Elf does stop struggling a moment later, although not in any deliberate action on his part; rather, his wounds and exhaustion seem to catch up with him as he slumps down and goes still, breath rasping in his throat as unconsciousness claims him once more.

Aijaz curses as the Elf's body goes slack, and quickly hauls the battered body up into his arms. "Now what?"

"We take him back with us," Nasrin say immediately, snatching her glaive up off the ground along with the Elf's dagger and scanning their surroundings for potential threats before striding towards where they'd left their hunting party. "We'll regroup with the others, and then return to camp. Hopefully one of our healers will be able to do something for the Elf."

"Let us hope so," Aijaz agrees, grim but resolute as he follows in her wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haradwaith: the country as a whole. What the Men of Gondor view as one land split into ‘Near Harad’ and ‘Far Harad’ is in fact a complex country divided into three kingdoms.
> 
> Haradrim: the people native to Haradwaith (refers to any human person born within the country). 
> 
> Mountains of Shadow: the mountain range along the northeastern border of Haradwaith, which separates it from Mordor. 
> 
> Karkadann: rhinoceros-like creatures native to the grasslands of Haradwaith; the horn of a karkadann has medicinal properties. (Meta: In our world, karkadann are creatures from myth, said to live in grassy plains of India and Persia). 
> 
> Maurya, Sasania, & Songhai: The 3 kingdoms that Haradwaith is divided into. Each kingdom has its own ruler and capital city, while the primary capital of Haradwaith as a whole is where these rulers and their advisors meet to discuss matters of state periodically. Each kingdom likewise is comprised of various provinces, which are in turn inhabited by different tribes. 
> 
> *On a meta level, these kingdoms are named after historical kingdoms in real life (because I am a nerd):  
> \- The Mauryan Empire was an empire that (to the best of my knowledge) covered most of central and northern India once upon a time as well as part of what is now Iran.  
> \- Sasania refers to the Sassanid Empire, which is generally considered to have been the last pre-Islamic Persian empire.  
> \- The Songhai Empire, meanwhile, was one of the greatest states of West Africa at the time (it was more or less one of the largest pre-colonial empires in Africa).


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

"We've done what we can for him," Nousha says the next day, coming directly to Nasrin once she exits the healing tent, "but I fear that that Elf is not long for this world. Even with a dose of powdered _karkadann_ horn from yesterday's kill, he is not recovering as he should."

Nasrin swallows against the lump of dismay in her throat. "His wounds are that severe?"

The healer nods, exhaustion clinging to her like a second skin as she absently swipes at a patch of sweat on her forehead. "Some of them have become infected, and I believe at least one of the cultists he fought against was wielding a poisoned blade; the Elf burns with fever, beyond what even an infected wound would explain. What moments he spent awake were spent in delirium; the only understandable thing amongst the gibberish was what seems to be his name, Trevadrion."

Nasrin grimaces, but in truth she's not surprised. After all, it's not unheard for the Sauronite cults to utilize underhanded tactics to turns the odds in their favor; she recalls an instance some years ago where a cultist had poisoned a small agricultural tribe's only water supply because they refused to suffer through the Sauronite's odious preaching of Sauron's supposed magnificence.

"We've treated his wounds as best as we can with the tinctures and remedies we have at our disposal, and we've given him a brew of valerian root and tulsi to keep him asleep," Nousha goes on, "but beyond that I fear there is nothing more we can do. An injured Elf is beyond even my skill as a healer," Nousha admits, regret seeping from every syllable. "Perhaps one of his own kind could render more effective aid, but you know as well as I do that there are no other Sindarin Elves to be found this far south."

"No _Sindarin_ Elves, no," Nasrin says slowly, even as the beginnings of a plan starts to form in her mind. "But perhaps the Avari could render assistance."

Nousha's sharply arched brows sweep upwards towards her hairline in an expression of blatant surprise. "Perhaps so," she acknowledges reluctantly after a moment of tense silence, "but we are leagues from the canyonlands that the Avari call home. The closest settlement is in the Jazhira province to the south," she continues, mouth pulling down into a severe frown, "and that is a journey of several days. A journey that _this_ Elf," she gestures back to the healers' tent, "would surely not survive. And that's assuming an Avari would even deign to help in the first place."

"I know of one Avari who might help," Nasrin responds, chewing absently on her lower lip. "Or at least…one that might convince others to help, if healing lies outside his skill-set. And if rumour is to be believed, he is not far from us, just a day's travel away in Malazvin."

Nousha purses her lips. "That settlement is more a chaotic trading post than a true town," she remarks, and Nasrin is inclined to agree, because for all that it has a fairly extensive market where vendors and traders of all stripes hawk their wares for all comers, there's always an edge of lawlessness there that makes it feel like more of a shantytown than anything.

Nasrin's in no position to be picky about her options, though. "Chaotic it may be, but if there is a chance help could be found there I must go." Because death is a frequent visitor in the southern lands these days, no matter which kingdom or province or tribe one belongs to, but if there's even the _slimmest_ possibility that she can save even just _one_ more person…well, it may not be much in the grand scheme of things, but it's the best that she can offer to the world at the moment and so that's what she gives.

Nousha's frown turns even more severe, but she relents after another moment when all Nasrin does is lift her chin and stare her down with the same stubbornness that she's carried in her heart since childhood, when she bullied her way into her first true hunt at the tender age of eight.

"Very well," the healer says with a long sigh. "I will prepare a litter, so that you can bring the Sindarin Elf with you to Malazvin. You should take another warrior with you," she adds as an afterthought. "It is not my place to advise you in matters of security or battle-danger, but clearly the Sauronites wanted this Sindarin Elf dead for one reason or another. It stands to reason they might try again if words reaches them that he yet lives."

"The thought had occurred to me," Nasrin admits, rubbing the back of her neck tiredly, tension making her shoulders stiff and rigid. "I will speak to Aijaz before I depart."

Nousha inclines her head then drifts back to the healers' tent without a backwards glance.

Nasrin, meanwhile, gives a sigh of her own, and then goes to find her second-in-command. "Aijaz," she says once she locates him loitering on the edges of the camp, dark eyes keen as he peers out into the growing darkness of twilight, one hand resting lightly on the scimitar sheathed at his waist. "All is quiet?"

"So far," he replies, in a tone that indicates a lack of belief in things staying that way. Then, as if he can read her thoughts (and perhaps he can, after all these years of friendship), "The Elf?"

"Not in a good way," she says honestly. "Nousha thinks him on the brink of death, and I have no cause to doubt her words."

"So that's it, then."

"...Not quite."

Aijaz turns to look at her more directly, a vaguely long-suffering expression making its way onto his face. "What are you plotting, Nasrin?"

"I wouldn't call it a _plot_ , precisely," she says. "It's just…Nousha and I think that another Elf might have a better chance at healing him."

"You mean to contact one of the Avari," Aijaz surmises.

"I do," she agrees. "Gwath is said to be in Malazvin right now; I can ask for his aid."

Aijaz groans. "Nasrin," he says and it sounds almost like a lament. "Even if Gwath agrees to help you -an incredibly unlikely outcome, in my opinion- he is no healer."

Nasrin concedes that point with a tip of her head, because Gwath is what she is: a hunter, first and foremost, with any other skills or attributes coming in at a distant second. But even so… "He is still Avari, and presumably more versed in how to care for an injured Elf than any of us. He has connections as well," she adds quickly, when it looks like Aijaz will continue to protest. "The merchants of Malazvin look upon him fondly for the trades he makes with them, and there may yet be other Avari in the area that he can direct me to, ones more skilled in the healing arts."

Aijaz scowls at her for another moment, no doubt remembering the fact that Nasrin and Gwath's first meeting had involved a knife fight and no less than five separate death threats, then heaves a weary sigh. "You're going whether I agree or not, aren't you," he says, and it's very much not a question.

"I'm Tiger's Claw," she reminds him, pointed yet gentle because she understands that his surliness is born of worry. "I hardly need your permission."

Her friend huffs at her, but doesn't argue; it's something Nasrin has always appreciated, that Aijaz is always accepting of the truth when it's presented to him, even if he dislikes it personally. "You'll need to take another warrior with you," he says now instead. "It would be foolhardy to attempt the trip to Malazvin alone in the best of times, much less burdened with that injured Elf." A pause, then, "I can accompany you, if you wish."

Tempting, however… "No," Nasrin says after a moment of contemplation, the benefits and detriments of that possibility flickering through her mind lightning-quick. "There still might be cultists lurking about, or other Sauronite sympathizers. One of us needs to stay with the camp, for protection."

Aijaz nods, mouth set into a grim line at the reminder of how the Elf in their care came to be so injured in the first place. "Very well," he agrees. "In that case, I recommend Bishal."

"Bishal," she echoes, considering it.

Bishal is young yet, just seventeen, but he's quick and clever and loyal. Those are all traits that Nasrin values, and moreover she's hardly going to discount someone's worth because of their youth. She got into plenty of scrapes at Bishal's age, after all, despite the fact that their tribe (like many others) considers twenty to be the age of majority.

(And of course, it's not as if bandits, marauders, or the servants of the Dark Lord care overmuch if the person they're skewering is an adult or an adolescent, and perhaps it's not quite right for Nasrin to let that skew her own perspective when it comes to the concept of maturity and what qualifies as adulthood but these are dangerous times and it is what it is.

She _hates_ it, that the young ones of her tribe are having to grow up so fast and in a world that's growing more perilous with every turn of the seasons, but it's not something she has the power to change and so she buries that fury deep in her heart along with all the others, a smoldering ember tucked away in her soul.)

"He's gotten quite good with those daggers of his," Aijaz remarks, his tone deliberately neutral as he waits for her to make her decision.

"He has," she agrees with a slight sigh, then gives a sharp nod. "Very well, I'll take him with me," she decides. "Tell him to be ready to leave in one _ghati._ "

Aijaz nods in acknowledgement, reaching out to lightly squeeze her shoulder before moving away. "I'll speak with him now. He'll be ready."

Nasrin watches him go, then glances up at the darkening sky, where the stars wink down at her from the vast expanse of the heavens.

 _Please let this be the right decision_ , she thinks, because even if everything goes _perfectly_ , trying to save this Elf is going to take her away from her people for at least two full days, probably more.

And she believes in the strength and resilience of her tribe, trusts Aijaz and the other warriors to keep them safe in her absence…but a lot can happen in even just two days, especially during these dark times when death seems to be hovering around every shadowed corner, waiting to pounce on the unsuspecting.

She's already committed to the path she's on, though, and she's not one to change her course once her mind's been made up.

(She just hopes that it's not a path she'll regret walking upon later.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One ghati: the equivalent of 24 minutes (meta: according to a way of measuring time in ancient India).
> 
> Jazhira: A province in Sasania. One of the most notable features of this province is the presence of the canyonlands that the Avari call home.
> 
> Butkada: A province in Sasania. Notable for being the part of Sasania that connects to Hara Berezaiti, the Haradwaith capital, as well as for containing a small section of the canyonlands that the Avari reside in.
> 
> Also, if anyone's interested in seeing some of the visuals I'm using for inspiration when it come to certain aspects of the story, feel free to check out [my Pinterest board for Legends Are Made.](https://www.pinterest.com/MoonlitYuzuki/legends-are-made-inspiration/) I update it periodically whenever I come across any images that fit well with my vision for Haradwaith, so feel free to check it out whenever.


	3. Chapter 3

The journey to Malazvin is without incident, almost suspiciously so.

It helps, perhaps, that the bulk of their journey takes place in the dark of night and in the early hours of the following morning, but even so it's a startlingly peaceful trip.

She and Bishal takes turns dragging the wounded Elf's litter behind them as they trek through scrubby brushland to reach the place where the trading town sits upon the border where chaparral meets desert.

They come across no other travelers until they reach the outskirts of the shantytown around midday, at which point they mingle with other travelers and traders, everyone blending together in a sea of faces that comes across as cohesive rather than chaotic despite their different skin tones and garbs.

"Stay close to me," Nasrin tells Bishal as they pause just inside the eastern gate so she can check to make sure the lightweight cloak she has covering the Elf hasn't slipped; after some thought, she'd decided that keeping Trevadrion -assuming, of course, that that _was_ his name, and not just another feverish ramble in a tongue none of her people speak- covered up and hidden from prying eyes was for the best. After all, a Sindarin Elf in the middle of Malazvin, so far from his native lands in the north, will draw far too many curious stares. And those stares in turn will spawn speculative whispers.

And whispers, these days, have a way of reaching precisely the wrong ears.

_(Clearly the Sauronites wanted this Sindarin Elf dead for one reason or another_ , Nousha had said. _It stands to reason they might try again if words reaches them that he yet lives.)_

Nasrin carefully and deliberately adjusts the cloak, tucking it in securely around the Sindarin Elf and making sure his pale hair and paler skin are hidden from view.

"Who are we looking for, exactly?" Bishal asks a moment later, as they navigate the winding streets and alleys of Malazvin, the crimson cloth of the sun shades stretching above them as they pass through a bazaar where merchants are calling out the perks and prices of their wares.

"An Avari Elf," Nasrin replies, careful to keep her voice as low as possible while still making herself heard above the din of the marketplace. "His name is Gwath."

"Gwath," Bishal repeats slowly, as if tasting the flavor of the name. "What's he like?"

Nasrin tries and utterly fails at mustering up a suitable descriptor for the being in question. "He's…himself," she settles for at last, because it's all she can really think of to say when it comes to the subject of Gwath.

(She still remembers the first time she'd met him. It had been…an experience, to say the very least.

The sort of experience that involved daggers and sharp words and an exchange of blows that had left both of them bruised and breathless but with something that could perhaps (if one was being generous) be considered mutual respect.

They've crossed paths over the years since then, on hunts or in the pursuit of supplies, and have hammered out something of an understanding between themselves.

She and Gwath are not _friends_ precisely, but neither are they enemies, and that's something of an asset in these dark days when tribes are warring with each other for resources and the Dark Lord's favor.)

In the end, dragging an already injured Sindarin warrior through the marketplace isn't a particularly productive means of finding who she's looking for, so she hauls the litter with the injured Elf over into a quiet minimalistic courtyard that's tucked away amongst the tangle of alleyways. "Stay here," she tells Bishal as she sets the litter down beside the decorative fountain. "I'll be back as soon as I find Gwath, alright? Until then, stay here. Shout for me if anything unsettles you, and don't hesitate to defend yourself if you feel threatened. Do you understand?"

Bishal swallows hard, nods. "I understand," he says, one hand going to one of the many slim daggers he has sheathed at his waist.

She musters up a sincere if slightly strained smile. "I'll be back soon," she repeats firmly, putting as much reassurance as she can into her voice before she ducks through the closest archway and back out into the bustling throng of people.

It takes her five conversations with five different merchants of varying levels of recalcitrance, but eventually she's pointed towards a small market-stall that's selling an eclectic combination of hunting equipment and wares crafted from bits of bone and fur and colored leather.

When she approaches it, however, there's no one manning the booth.

Frowning, she glance from side to side to scout for prying eyes, then quickly hops over the rough wooden plank the serves as the counter the booth, ducking underneath the thick tapestry at the back that leads to where the back-stock is stored.

She has just enough time to take two steps forward and spot a bedroll nestled in between crates of supplies, and then suddenly there's a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye and a sharp pinprick of cold as someone presses the edge of a dagger against the side of her neck.

It takes a considerable amount of willpower to quell her instincts, instincts that are clamoring at her to _react_ , to vault to the side and reach for the glaive that's strapped to her back.

Instead, she takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, amusement creeping in to replace the instinctive need to retaliate to a perceived threat. "Hello, Gwath," she says. "This is quite nostalgic," she adds, dry humor creeping into her tone entirely against her will.

"It is a bit, isn't it?" The dagger lifts away from her neck and Gwath deigns to step into her field of view.

Nasrin finds the corners of her mouth quirking up into a faint grin even as she lashes out to lightly kick the Avari Elf in the ankle. "You're lucky I didn't skewer you on instinct," she tell him, somewhere between chiding and exasperated.

Gwath just rolls his eyes at her, thoroughly unimpressed as he tucks his dagger away. "What brings you here?" he asks, regarding her with an intense look, gray eyes piercing as he scrutinizes her.

She considers obfuscating for the space of a heartbeat, then dismisses it as foolishness a moment later; there's no time to waste on such pointlessness, not when a life hangs in the balance. "I found an injured Elf on a hunt," she tells him now, not even bothering to ease into it because Gwath has never minded her penchant for directness. "Sindarin, I think, although I cannot be entirely sure."

"Oh?" Gwath absently flicks a lock of hair over one shoulder, the brightly colored beads in one of his thin decorative braids catching in the dappled afternoon light that's filtering in from above them. "That's unusual; the Grey Elves don't usually venture this far south."

Nasrin tips her head in acknowledgement of that truth. "Aijaz and I were equally surprised by his presence, I assure you." Then, because it's only fair that she give her not-friend all the facts, "From what we could tell, he was injured when fighting some Sauronite cultists."

Gwath gives a low hiss, the sound reminiscent of the burrowing owls that live deep in the dry wastelands of the desert as well as the craggy canyonlands that his people call home. " _Räpane saast_ ," he mutters, and though she isn't certain of the specific meaning of the Avarin phrase (or even which of the six Avarin dialects it's from), she thinks it's safe to say it's _not_ complimentary.

"The healers of my tribe did their best for him," Nasrin goes on, "but whatever poison courses through his veins is not one we are equipped to deal with. I had hoped that you might be able to help him," she adds pointedly.

Gwath narrows his gaze at her, the small dots tattooed under his eyes barely visible in the patchy light of the stall's backroom. "You know I'm not a healer," he says, tone carrying just a hint of warning. "I can treat basic injuries and patch up simple wounds, but curing anything more complex than a laceration or an embedded arrow is beyond my skill."

"I know," she replies, because she _does_ know; she and Gwath are one of a kind despite their differences, and their skills lie in tracking and fighting, not in fixing the hurts that come from fighting. "But I also know that you're not the only Avari in Malazvin. Please don't lie to me," she adds quickly, when Gwath is visibly about to protest. "I understand why some of your people keep themselves hidden when outside of your canyons, especially lately." Because the Dark Lord of Mordor and his servants were always looking for people to capture and twist to do their bidding, particularly the Avari Elves.

(According to legend, some of the first Elves that Sauron had captured in ancient times had been Avari, and he'd then taken those Elves and tortured them with his dark magic, ripping them apart and stitching them back together again with malice and ill intent, shaping them into sick parodies of their former selves.

Nasrin doesn't know if there's any truth to those legends, but they make her heart hurt regardless, and she's always taken them as the warning they're meant to be.

Better to die free, than be captured by the Enemy.)

"I understand why you'd want to protect an Avari healer," she goes on. "But please believe me that if there _is_ one here in Malazvin, then I need their help. This Sindarin Elf needs their help." When all that gets her is an inscrutable expression, she feels something crack in her chest, just a little. "Gwath _please_. Don't tell me I came all this way for nothing," she adds in a whisper.

A long stretch of silence, broken only by the sounds of shuffling footsteps and marketplace chatter from outside the stall.

Then, finally, after what feels like a small eternity, Gwath lets out a small sigh. "You didn't come all this way for nothing," he murmurs, reaching out to wrap long slender fingers around her wrist in a light squeeze before stepping past her to the tapestry that's cutting them off from the rest of the world. "Follow me," he tells her now, snatching up his sleek recurve bow and a quiver of matching arrows before he slips through a gap in the colorfully dyed fabric. "And don't fall behind."

"Don't worry yourself," she says, voice coming out sharper than she intends as she strides after him. "I can keep up."

Gwath spares a moment to flash her a quicksilver smile, there and gone again so fast that she wonders if she imagined it. "I don't doubt it," he says, and then he's gone, slipping away into the crowd.

Nasrin curses under her breath and follows after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus World-building Knowledge for the chapter: the Avarin languages! (This isn't formatted like an official glossary entry because it's mostly just me rambling, but I hope you find it informative and entertaining anyway.)
> 
> According to some research I did, there are multiple dialects used by the Avari. I think six dialects overall, and according to my research they could be grouped into three main categories: West Avarin, North Avarin and East Avarin. Anyway, not much is known about these dialects since no Avari Elves were ever really shown in any of Tolkien's major works or any of the adaptions of those works; all I was able to find out was that supposedly these languages were "originally intended to have a resemblance in sound to Goidelic, Baltic, and Finnic languages". What this means for this story is that I'll be occasionally borrowing words or phrases from these languages to serve as Avarin whenever that particular type of Elvish crops up in dialogue.
> 
> (That being said, please be patient with me in this regard; if I end up accidentally butchering Estonian or Karelian or some other language, it's absolutely not intentional and just me fumbling about and trying my best. And I will, of course, offer up translations for any bits of Avarin I toss in that aren't already translated in the narrative. Räpane saast, for example, is intended to mean "filthy scum" although the translation programs I used were not particularly helpful when it came to fact-checking this for me. I mean, I typed in 'filthy scum' and it gave me that phrase, which I used in this chapter, but then when I reversed the translation it gave me…'dirty dirt'. So, yeah. Please bear with me, lol.)
> 
> On a related note, Nasrin's tribe (the Bali Bagha) speak the Middle-Earth equivalent of Bengali. That being said, Haradwaith as a whole is home to a wide variety of languages and dialects, and any Haradrim who travels through multiple provinces or trades with other tribes is usually fluent in not only their own tribe's language but also the languages of their neighbors as well as the main language of the entire country. This is why Nasrin is able to converse with not only people from her tribe but also Gwath and various other people she encounters.
> 
> (She and Gwath are also going to be able to converse with people outside of Haradwaith, once they start traveling abroad, because Nasrin knows some of the other languages of Men courtesy of Haradwaith's northern border with Gondor and Western border with Umbar, while Gwath can speak some Sindarin and Quenya courtesy of the fact that while the Avari consider themselves very much separate from the other Elves of Middle-Earth they still all technically belong to the same race and all Elvish languages stem from what Tolkien called "Primitive Quendian". But never mind that now, I'm getting ahead of myself!)
> 
> Anyway, that's that on languages in Haradwaith for the moment! Sorry for how long that ramble went on, haha. The next chapter's end notes will likely feature the glossary entry on the Avari themselves, so if you're interested in my take on that definitely tune in. ;D See you next time!


End file.
